Death and Loving It
by Nienna Telrunya
Summary: After TV series' are done, Death gets to take care of them. But what if she prefers a Forever Knight, Xfiles, Buffy crossover instead? Discontinued.
1. Default Chapter

Death of TV Shows Fire, Ice and Hospital Scrubs Death and Loving It Games with Death A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-Files Crossover  
  
Prologue:  
  
Let us pause, for a moment, in our ponderings and consider what would happen if there were a Death of TV shows. Now when I say "Death" I mean the person – the anthropomorphic personification – of death. All TV shows end (though I admit, quite a few seem to go on forever . . .) and it is quite often that those who are producing the show end it by killing one or more of the main characters. To be frank, I hate this kind of ending, because often they are used to stop the show whether or not it is ready to end. Of course, it may also be because it's almost always my favorite character that they end up killing in the process . . . but that's a different story.  
  
Now let us imagine that this Death is responsible for going to all the sadly-ended shows and taking care of the causalities. Let us imagine furthermore that after the show is finished, it does not in fact continue in that universe as one would expect, but floats around frozen in time for however long the show lasted – an eight season show, for example, would drift around for another eight seasons (not including reruns.) At that point, Death would be responsible for "taking care of" the citizens of the show.  
  
As we know, however, it is only the imaginations and dreams of the viewers that keep the characters alive at all. So even after the hovering time, the characters would not be precisely "dead." Therefore, Death has to take care of the floaters as well. After all, there are only so many TV shows, and Death has a lot of free time.  
  
As you might have guessed, this Death would probably not be typical, being made of things very unlike those of the "real world." It might even be possible for Death to get bored between the endings of TV shows.  
  
And, of course, there is always the possibility that Death actually watches the shows, and has grown to enjoy watching the characters, despite their being not real. Except they are – Death has to deal with them; they are brought alive by minds such as our own, and by fan fiction written far after the original stories have been completed . . . and even after the author's death.  
  
You see, this Death was not created. Just as the characters were once played by actors, so was Death once human. Death does not want to be human again – oh, no. But humans aren't the only ones who can have fun; humans aren't the only ones who don't want their favorite characters to float in nothingness before fading away.  
  
If you had a choice, to create and keep enough faith in some characters for them to live on in a world of your own, would you? And would you do this even if it meant that all different peoples from all different 'verses had to live in the same world?  
  
And then you must ask yourself: what of the dead ones? 


	2. Rude Awakenings

Death of TV Shows Part 1: Rude Awakenings A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-Files Crossover  
  
Disclaimer: Any and all Forever Knight, Buffy the Vampire Slayer or X-files characters etc. are their own. The locations used here are real, so they don't really belong to anyone except their respective governments. The rest of the characters (well, character, mostly) are mine, so please don't use them without permission. I hope you all enjoy!  
  
__________________________________________  
  
Death sat on the edge of a very large bowl-shaped hole, feet dangling over the edge, two bony thumbs twiddling. Why was it always the waiting? Surely there had been a time when . . . no! Must not go into a flashback! Looking up, Death noticed that the producers finally had the sense to end the show (though not, it's true, without some rather pointless dramatic flair.)  
  
Buffy (formerly THE vampire slayer) jumped, suddenly realizing she was alone. Where was Willow? And Xander? And . . . that crowd? They were all gone! In fact, the only person there besides her was . . . a rather not-movie-star-pretty, short girl (who was somehow managing to look tall and deadly) with black hair and robes to match?  
  
"Ah, so you've noticed me," Death said dryly. Actually, everything she ever said was dry. That's one of the reasons people though she was crazy (besides the fact that no sane author would EVER make Death female.) "It's taken you long enough – how long was this show? Seven seasons? Eight?"  
  
For a girl who had just faced the end of the world, seen the vampire who was the "boyfriend in her heart" about to die, suddenly been deserted by her friends, standing next to a huge hole in the ground and facing Death, Buffy's reaction wasn't that bad: "Huh?"  
  
Rolling her eyes, Death pulled out a small (black) notepad, and wrote something, muttering to herself: "Rather small vocabulary."  
  
"What?" Buffy asked startled. "What do you mean? Hey, if you're a demon, I have to fight you!"  
  
"Doesn't catch on very quickly . . ." Death continued writing, and then looked up. "No, I'm just taking notes. Dying tends to knock people out of character. If I remember the series correctly, you'd probably be pulling out a sharp, pointy stick about now. Was your hair always that shade of blond?"  
  
Touching her hair a little self-consciously, Buffy pulled her hand away and straightened, back (in part) to her normal, slightly vain, self, "No, why?" Almost instinctively, she reached for a stake.  
  
"Still hasn't caught on . . . changed hair color . . ." Buffy, now almost positive the end of the world (almost) hadn't ended at least *this* demon, threw the stake at Death . . . and watched as it went right through her. "Good aim at least . . ." Death muttered, as she continued to write.  
  
"Stop writing things about me!" Buffy exclaimed. "What have you done with my friends? Who are you?"  
  
"Demanding . . . hmm? Oh, I haven't done anything with your friends. They've faded away into non-existence and fan fictions by now. I wish them luck . . . with some of the awful writers out there, they'll need it." Death considered this for a moment, and after one more note on her pad, slipped it into an invisible (and possibly fictional) pocket. "I'm Death, nice to meet you." She courteously extended one hand. Buffy gripped it in return before pulling the smaller girl over her shoulder then kicking her as she straightened. It was like kicking a brick wall. Only brick walls usually crumbled in their own cliché way under the slayer's foot, and this one . . .  
  
"Ow!!" Buffy yelled, holding her foot.  
  
Death pulled out her pad again. "REALLY slow learner." She looked up at Buffy, her expression as blank as always. "Of course, you *are* reverted back 1/3rd of the series – everyone is, in the 'verses so far. So you are younger by a couple years. It makes you people easier to work with, what with you repeating the whole series once anyway. Dang reruns."  
  
"Hey, I like reruns, they –" Buffy stopped abruptly. "What do you mean, reruns?"  
  
"Slow, but not permanently stupid," Death pulled out her notepad again. "I mean, you're on a TV show – people created you, actors mimicked you, and viewers brought you to life. Lemon drop?"  
  
Buffy stared down at the candy then shook her head. This was *not* the right time fore lemon drops. "You're crazy."  
  
"Probably," Death sighed and put the lemon drop away. "Too little sugar – I'm back on carrots again."  
  
But Buffy didn't really notice the answer; she continued talking, almost to herself. Looking rather amused, Death took notes. "You're crazy, I mean, who has a name like 'Death'? And a TV show? Now *that* is just weird. But I do feel different – like I was a couple years younger. Huh. But no." She looked up, having reached a conclusion. "You're crazy."  
  
"We already covered that. Are you done ranting?"  
  
"Nearly. I mean, yes. What?"  
  
"Well," Death answered, smiling, "You're a little out-of-character still, what with the ranting and slow learning. Plus, I'm bored. So you get one chance. No," she added, as Buffy opened her mouth to speak (again.) "This is my game; I make the rules. In any case, it's traditional."  
  
"What's my chance?" Buffy asked. Why not?  
  
"I'm going to transport you to the 'Forever Knight' universe. That's another TV show – like your world."  
  
"TV show?"  
  
"Yes, we just went over this. There is a TV show in the Real World called 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer.' It stars you and your friends. You see, all of your life and reality is neither of those things at all. Every TV show is, in fact, a universe. This is the 'Buffy' universe. Remember? Now, I'm going to transfer you to another one of the movie 'verses."  
  
"Hold it," said Buffy suddenly. "What did you say your name was?"  
  
"Mmm, bad memory . . . it's 'Death'."  
  
"So I'm dead? And you want to move me to a different universe?"  
  
"Not exactly. See, to be dead, you have to be alive . . . and you were never exactly alive." She sighed in a dry, death-like manner. "I don't know why they gave me the name 'Death', but it's better than 'Person-who- comes-after-TV-shows-and-cleans-up-the-mess.' That'd make an awful acronym. My point was: you are going to another universe where the series has ended. You will live there. You will not tell anyone who you are or where you are from. You will not tell them you are dead. You will not kill anyone. You will forget I just used a very redundant sentence style."  
  
"Oh," Buffy answered shortly. The next moment, she was on the streets of Toronto. And she was freezing.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Nicolas de Brabant (also known as Detective Nick Knight) was not dead thanks to the fact that the Forever Knight TV show had ended before he had a chance to. True, he was still very *undead,* but had been so for about 768 years, and, aside from all the angst, had learned to cope with it. Speaking of angst, now that Natalie was gone and dead Nick felt like he just wanted to die. Where was LaCroix?  
  
Nicolas stood up, feeling a bit foggy. What was going on? Slowly, he turned back to where Nat lay. She was gone. "Nat?" Nick exclaimed in surprised. "Nat? Nat?!" The vampire ran out into the streets searching for his friend. "Nat!" he cried, seeing a young woman (who looked very cold indeed) on the street. But it was not Natalie Lambert. Only slowly did it occur to Nick . . . LaCroix must have taken her. LaCroix had taken Nat away.  
  
*Flashback:*  
  
Alyssa was being carried away by LaCroix. She was dead.  
  
*End really short Flashback.*  
  
"'Scuse me," a Californian-accented voice asked from beside Nick. "Are you okay? You just kind of zoned out . . ."  
  
Nick turned sharply to see the girl. She looked about nineteen or twenty, and was certainly not dressed for the weather. "I'm Buffy," she said holding out her hand.  
  
"Nick Knight, Metro homicide," Nicolas answered automatically, shaking it. "May I help you?" He froze after asking the question. What was he doing? This was not the time! Shouldn't he be running? He had just killed Natalie, and LaCroix had almost certainly taken her out of town! But it was too late now; it was his duty as an officer to help those in need.  
  
"Yes, actually . . ."  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
It was season three, and Mulder *still* had a mound of paperwork on his desk. Some things never change. He was staring at it morosely when the distinct scraping sound of a folder being pushed under the door gave him an excuse to jump up. Picking up the file, Mulder opened the door, as was his tradition.  
  
"Took you long enough," the short, black-garbed girl at the door said. "I know the usual informant doesn't hang around, but I'm not usual. And no, that was not a scripted line. Geez, you people have no sense of humour."  
  
"I didn't say anything . . ." Mulder pointed out, as Scully ran in, waving a criminal profile. The girl – whom you've no doubt guessed by now was none other than Death – stepped quickly to the side, to avoid being run over (or through, depending on whether or not she was currently solid.)  
  
"I found it! It was in the . . . oh. You have a visitor." Scully paused, no doubt waiting to be introduced.  
  
"Excellent observation," Death noted. "Well, since you're both here, I can begin. Agent Mulder, if you would please show your partner that which I have so pointlessly shoved under your door?"  
  
Glancing at each other in a "She is really weird, cover my back just in case" sort of way, Mulder studied the two pictures then handed them to Scully.  
  
"What do you want with these?"  
  
"What do I want? Nothing," Death replied. "I like people solve puzzles. I control the rules; this is my game. But perhaps you would like to play? The two pictures you see before you – they are taken 40 years apart. If you will notice this figure," she pointed to Nick, "he is in both pictures . . . and has not aged a day."  
  
"Are you saying he's immortal?" Mulder asked in fascination, taking the pictures back from his partner.  
  
"No, you are. I said he hadn't aged. My point is: this man – he currently goes by 'Nick Knight' – is working as a homicide detective in Toronto, Canada." I want you to investigate him.  
  
Scully rolled her eyes. Figures. "We don't have jurisdiction in Canada," she said. "This is the FBI."  
  
"Right, I know that," Death replied, suddenly grinning brightly in a dark sort of way. "But he used to work in the USA, and was surrounded by several mysterious murders. Anyway, I have these papers –" she produced them from a fictional pocket – "giving permission from the Canadian government. He used to work in the United States, so it *is* connected. I have tickets for you – here. Your flight is later than usual – you won't have to wake up before four AM. Don't you hate those late flights?"  
  
The two FBI agents just stared at her. Death got out her notebook again and wrote, muttering: "No sense for dry humor . . . misses irony . . ."  
  
"What are you writing?" Mulder asked curiously, trying to get a look at her black notepad.  
  
"Curious and questioning . . . typical FBI . . . don't tell them you're Death . . ." Death muttered, still writing.  
  
"Death?" Scully asked in surprise. "What do you mean?"  
  
Still muttering to herself, Death looked up, then waved the agent away with her hand. "Never mind." She walked out into the hall and was gone without another word. The agents followed her, but the hallway was just as empty as usual.  
  
"That was . . . strange," Scully said, looking after Death. She turned to Mulder, who was still staring at the pictures. "Mulder?"  
  
He glanced up at her, waving two tickets. "I've always wanted to visit Toronto. See you tomorrow, Scully." He grinned devilishly, and left just as quickly as Death had. Scully was left alone, holding her profile and looking like she would have preferred for the last few minutes to have been repeated . . . in slow motion. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  
  
Comments, criticism, complements and complaints are all happily accepted. You can contact me at nienna_telrunya@hotmail.com Or visit my website at Thank you! 


	3. Playing with LaCroix

Death of TV Shows Part 2: Playing with LaCroix A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-Files Crossover  
  
Disclaimer: if it's not mine, it's not. There is a short scene from Last Knight which, aside from the story format, is directly from the show. __________________________________________  
  
Nicolas de Brabant desperately did NOT want Buffy in his loft. He had just killed his girlfriend, and she and LaCroix had disappeared soon after. He was in no mood for taking care of lost citizens. But . . . at least he wasn't hungry. And as an officer of the law, it was his duty to assist . . . even if the girl *did* refuse to go to the station . . . which was why Buffy Sommers was sitting on his couch wrapped in a blanket and sipping coffee.  
  
"Would you stop pacing?" Buffy asked Nick, feeling a little dizzy. "It's not going to help anything."  
  
Nick stopped and looked at her. "That's it," he asked, "a 'weird' person showed up – in California – and told you to look to me for help, and then suddenly you're freezing in Toronto?"  
  
Buffy considered this for a moment. "Yes," she replied, "basically."  
  
"What did this person look like?" Nick said, sitting on the other side of his couch.  
  
"I told you; I can't remember."  
  
Catching her eye, Nick stared at Buffy. "Try," he ordered in a soft but persuasive – and hypnotic – voice. "Tell me everything about her. Did she tell you her name?"  
  
"She was . . ." Buffy started, and then froze, shaking off the whammy. "I don't know – just weird. I know this isn't exactly helping. Maybe I should just try and get home. Though it's not like I have one left," she muttered, frowning.  
  
"Your home was destroyed?" Nick inquired curiously. This was new information. "What happened?"  
  
"Oh, you know," Buffy replied. "Natural disaster – it's California, we have lots of earthquakes; this one took our whole town out.  
  
"Ah," Nick said. It was obvious to him that Buffy was lying about the 'natural' disaster – and doing a very good job of it. He wondered why she would – but she seemed to be a resister to his hypnotic ability, and he knew he wouldn't get any more out of her on the subject. He'd have to do some research on this Buffy Sommers. But for now . . . "Do you have a passport?"  
  
Buffy shook her head. "I've never really been out of California before," she admitted. "Sorry if I'm being a pain, but – what was that?" she asked suddenly, reaching for a stake. "Did you hear something?"  
  
Nick nodded – he'd been listening for several minutes now. "It's not unusual to hear that around here. Don't worry about it."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"The signal for me to check you into a motel," Nick answered dryly. "You can't stay here. But we can take care of the passport problem tomorrow night – it's late."  
  
Buffy stared. "It's not even four in the morning!" she exclaimed.  
  
"I work the night-shift," Nick explained. "This is getting late for me – but, in any case, I'm tired and so are you."  
  
"I don't have any money," Buffy said suddenly, almost interrupting Nick. "Please – just let me stay here – uh – today. I won't make a mess, promise. Anyway, who would be open at this time of night? Couldn't I just check in later?"  
  
Sighing, Nick agreed. It was times like these he needed Natalie. Nat!  
  
*Flashback:* [Last Knight]  
  
Nick is holding Nat. "You cannot deny what I am."  
  
"You cannot deny what's in your heart," Nat counters, looking into his eyes.  
  
"What are you saying?" Nick asks in surprise.  
  
"I have faith. There is a future for us. Here as we are or somewhere else. I believe in you. I trust you. Make love to me, Nick. Take just a little a time."  
  
"I'm afraid of what might happen," Nick replies.  
  
"I'm not afraid of death . . . Or of an eternity of darkness as long as I can spend it with you. All I have is faith and love. All I'm asking is for you to make love to me. I trust you."  
  
Nick takes Nat's hands in his own. "I won't leave you. Whatever happens, we'll be together." Nick leans forward and bites Natalie . . .  
  
*End Flashback*  
  
"I left her . . ." Nick murmured, too softly for Buffy to hear.  
  
"Are you still with me?" Buffy asked, waving her hand over Nick's glazed eyes. He blinked, focusing on her, fighting his threatening tears. "That's the second time you've done that – just zoned out. Am I that boring?"  
  
"I'm fine," Nick answered, almost smiling. "I suppose you are correct – you may spend the night here. If you will give me a moment, I will prepare the bed for you –"  
  
"No need, thanks," Buffy answered gratefully. "This couch would be just fine."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes." As Nick shrugged and went to get her some (black) blankets, Buffy settled back into her seat. She hadn't really had a chance to thing (probably a good thing) before, but now she had far more than a million questions – but none that Nick could answer. After all, if this really *was* a different universe (which she still doubted . . .) Detective Nick Knight had probably never even heard of vampires.  
  
Then again . . . Death, however crazy, had seemed very . . . sure of her choice of universe. But why had she picked this one? "Forever Knight" it was called. The "Knight" part referred to Nick, that was obvious. But what did it mean?  
  
Buffy barely noticed as Nick gave her blankets. She fell asleep wondering if she had been knocked out and brought here . . . that would explain the season and time change.  
  
Nick looked sadly at her glazed look. At least he wasn't the only one. But that would do no good now . . . it was time to go and angst about his problems.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
"No," LaCroix said, staring directly into Death's eyes with his golden ones.  
  
"But they love you!" Death exclaimed, squirming a little under his gaze. "And you're a non-dying canon character! They need you!"  
  
"I don't see you pushing Nicholas into this 'fan fiction' world to be drooled over by mortal girls! And *he* might actually have enjoyed it."  
  
"Well . . . no," Death answered. "But he was the star! *The* main character has to stay to satisfy canon and satisfy the 'verse!"  
  
"You *will* put me back," LaCroix said hypnotically. Death stared incredulously at him.  
  
"You can't hypnotize me," she said. "I'm crazy – it doesn't work." Death pulled out her notebook and began to write, muttering "Doesn't understand these things . . ."  
  
"Put it away," LaCroix ordered. Death complied a little sulkily. "And let me go – I have to stake Nicholas." His eyes glowed even more brightly at this, until Death turned slightly away.  
  
"No," she answered with quite emphasis. "I can't do that."  
  
With vampire speed, LaCroix pinned Death to the ebony wall, with one arm pinning hers and the other over her neck. Death looked up (at least a foot) at his face, apologetically. "This is a warning," LaCroix said. "Something which I usually don't give."  
  
"Oh, that's nice," Death replied dryly, trying to reach her notebook. "But you're still due in a fic in just a couple minutes." She turned insubstantial, and slid through LaCroix icily. "I hate doing that," she noted mildly, pulling out a different notebook from the first. LaCroix could see it was a slightly different shade of black.  
  
LaCroix, only momentarily surprised by Death's ability to go through him, watched her. "And what 'fic' would that be?" he asked.  
  
Death shrugged, and then checked her notes. "It's called 'Seduction' and in it you meet an original character and –" she paled, staring at the notebook. "Where did you want to go again?"  
  
LaCroix looked at her suspiciously. Why had she changed personalities and convictions so quickly? "What was written in there?"  
  
Death shook her head, composing herself. "The sick fantasies of a teenage," she answered, making some notes. "And she spelled your name wrong."  
  
Smiling wryly, Death switched notebooks and looked back at LaCroix. "I'm not *that* evil." – It was a *bad* fic. But then again . . . Death could almost *taste* what could be done with LaCroix in the mix. Fun. – "All right, I'll allow you to go back – and even to The Hospital, but I have two conditions."  
  
"What are they?" LaCroix asked sharply, not bothering to hide his fangs from the meddling, game-playing Death. He almost liked her – they were alike. Except for the whole insanity thing, that is.  
  
"You make no contact with Nicolas de Brabant."  
  
"And?"  
  
". . . and you 'escort' the two FBI agents – Fox Mulder and Dana Scully – I'm sending to Toronto."  
  
LaCroix's eyes narrowed menacingly, but Death didn't even wince this time. "Those terms are unacceptable."  
  
"I could put you in the fic . . ." LaCroix glared. "What are *your* terms then," Death asked. "You follow my game, and I'll follow yours."  
  
Now LaCroix actually smiled – the possibilities . . . "That would be fine. I will agree if you swear to come if I call . . . and keep Dr. Lambert away from Nicholas."  
  
"Excellent!" Death exclaimed. "Shall we bind the contract with a drink?" she motioned to a small, ebony table where two glasses had appeared. LaCroix looked at his doubtfully, but after sniffing it found the finest young blood.  
  
"To game playing," Death said, lifting her glass.  
  
"And the victims of it."  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Mulder was more than ready to leave his place at four the next morning. As he was exiting, an elegant (and extremely expensive-looking) car pulled up, and a tall, pale man stepped out and walked up to him. "Agent Fox Mulder?" he asked in a strange accent.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I am Lucien LaCroix. If you will please come with me, I shall escort you to Toronto." Mulder looked past the elderly vampire to the shaded windows of his car where Scully already sat. She nodded to him.  
  
"Thank you," Mulder answered cautiously. He edged around LaCroix, who took his bags as if they weighed nothing. Mulder immediately headed to the car and slid in next to his partner. "Are you all right, Scully?" he asked in a low voice, thinking LaCroix couldn't hear him – which, of course, he could.  
  
"I'm fine. I just don't like this, Mulder," Scully replied. "There is something wrong with that man." Mulder nodded, but didn't answer as LaCroix had just opened his door. A moment later, they were driving. Neither agent noticed LaCroix's careful concentration on the eastern horizon.  
  
"I take it the girl who spoke to us hired you," Mulder said, trying to make conversation with his silent driver. LaCroix didn't answer. "Did she hire you?" Mulder tried again.  
  
"You could say that," LaCroix replied shortly. Scully found herself surreptitiously loosening her gun in its holster.  
  
But the remainder of the drive was uneventful, if not uncomfortable (and amusing, in LaCroix's case, as he was very aware of the affect he was having on the two FBI agents.)  
  
By the time the three of them had reached the airport, LaCroix's vampire sense was positively yelling at him: 'the sun is coming up! Run for your life!' But he knew better; Death had promised him a (after the fourth glass) no sun for today. Yes, it was sure to be dreary, grey, and dark. He didn't much care to think of the vibes he was sure to get from Nicolas on such a day, but at least he would be able to walk around in buildings with *windows* today . . . as long as he was careful, that is.  
  
"Come quickly," LaCroix ordered. "Follow me." He led them into the semi- crowed airport, past the check-in and onto the airplane in less time than either of them had ever managed it. LaCroix then left them without a word – he wanted a "snack."  
  
"We're on a public flight," Mulder noted, looking around. "Why would someone send an escort to put us on a public flight?"  
  
"I don't know," Scully answered. She looked around, but LaCroix was nowhere to be seen. "And what do you think of our . . . escort."  
  
"LaCroix?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I think he needs to take a vacation to somewhere sunny and get a decent tan. That guy looks like he hasn't gotten any good rays in a decade!" Mulder answered, pulling a little sack of stale sunflower seeds from his pocket. "Want one?"  
  
"How did you get those?" Scully laughed. "The food cart hasn't even come around yet."  
  
"When traveling on long plane trips, it's best to carry them along. One time when I was –"  
  
"Mulder?" Scully asked, tapping him on the shoulder. He turned to her, stuffing several seeds in his mouth.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"You're avoiding my question," Scully said reproachfully. "What do you think of Mr. LaCroix?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Scully?" LaCroix's voice asked from just behind her. Scully jumped, looking a little embarrassed.  
  
"Never mind," she answered quickly, not looking at Mulder. He was grinning broadly at her. 


	4. Formaldahyde, masker of smells

Death of TV Shows Part 3: Formaldehyde masks smells A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-files crossover  
  
Disclaimer: and characters etc. that I did not invent, I do not claim here. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit. __________________________________________  
  
Buffy woke up around five the next afternoon, feeling refreshed. For a moment, she didn't even open her eyes, content to lie back in her own bed. It was dark out behind her eyelids – what time was it, anyway? Slowly, she opened her eyes, and froze – her room was *never* this dark. Where was she?  
  
Oh yeah: the end of the world . . . Death . . . Canada . . . the ever- strange Detective Nick Knight. Sitting up, Buffy really looked around for the first time. Or tried to. Muttering about people who kept their houses completely dark, Buffy got up and stumbled forward, knocking over something. Desperately hoping it wasn't very valuable, she backed up, and –  
  
"Ow!" Slapping her hand (loudly) over her mouth, Buffy stifled any further exclamation.  
  
"Are you all right?" Nick asked from beside her only a moment later. Buffy jumped slightly and punched where he had been. A light flickered on to reveal a tired-looking Nick in black silk pajamas and a bathrobe. "Are you all right?" Nick repeated, "I heard some crashing."  
  
Buffy studied his face, doubting he had slept at all. Had he been watching her? Her instincts said 'no.' He looked as if he needed some rest . . . and not from spying on her; he looked decent enough. Even so, "I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
"You didn't," Nick answered truthfully. "Don't worry about it." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Perhaps I should get dressed, and then we can talk."  
  
Buffy nodded. As soon as the detective had gone, she began searching for whatever she had knocked over and broken. Several seconds of looking exposed a small, ornate clay bowl which looked enormously expensive. Wincing, she picked up the pieces and put them on the table they had fallen from.  
  
Deciding not to worry about it, Buffy walked over to examine the painted canvases Nick had decorated his loft with.  
  
"Just a little hobby of mine," Nick commented, coming up behind her silently.  
  
Jumping slightly – again – in surprise (who could sneak up on the slayer? She must have been very distracted indeed) Buffy turned to Nick. "Sorry about the bowl – I broke it – was it antique?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Nicolas asked, looking at her in confusion. Buffy pointed. "Oh, yes, it was," he answered simply, making Buffy even more uncomfortable.  
  
"Um, I can pay – or, well, no, I can't, but –" Buffy started, anxious to break the silence.  
  
"No, it's fine." Nick answered, quickly changing the subject when he noticed the Slayer's discomfort. "But what about you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You," Nick replied. *Oh, he was changing the subject . . . I get it . . .* "We agreed to decide what to do in the evening, and it's almost that time now. Do you have any family?"  
  
"No," Buffy answered, smiling apologetically. "I don't have anyone. Maybe if I could borrow some money to get back to California . . ."  
  
"You would still have no place to go," Nick finished.  
  
"No," Buffy said sadly. "I wouldn't." She stared back at one of Nick's paintings, wondering if this was strictly true, though somehow she felt it was. She was lost. Just like . . . the colors of the canvas seemed to be staring back at her; they, too, had gone astray. But that was silly.  
  
"I will take you down to the station in a little while, then," Nick said calmly. "They can help you much better than I . . . perhaps that is why your mysterious person sent you to me."  
  
"She's not 'my' mysterious person. But maybe you're right," answered Buffy, doubting it very much. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Why can't we go now?"  
  
"There is no need," Nick replied quickly. "I work the night shift anyway, and this won't take much time. In the meantime, you must be hungry. I don't keep much food around, but we might be able to find something to satisfy you."  
  
Buffy blinked her eyes rapidly for a moment, sensing that Nick had just cleanly changed the subject again. Still . . . she hadn't eaten for who- knows-how-long, and any food sounded great right then. "Sure, whatever you have would be fine."  
  
But after a few minutes it became evident that "whatever Nick had" wasn't much. All that they found was some bread, a little coffee, and some old hamburgers that Nat had brought. "I'm on a special diet," Nick said as way of explanation. "My doctor makes me . . . used to make me . . . protein shakes.  
  
*Flashback*  
  
Nick and Nat are in the loft. Nick has a "You have *got* to be kidding me" expression on as Natalie hands his a thermos. "Now I want you to drink *all* of this," she says. "And don't make that face at me!"  
  
Nick sits down on the couch, grinning brightly at her. "You don't really want to give me that," he says in a low, hypnotic voice, taking out a pocket-watch and waving it in front of her face. "You do NOT want to give me the protein shake."  
  
"Yes, I do," answers Natalie firmly. "And you *want* to drink it." Nick just groans in response.  
  
*End Flashback*  
  
Buffy watched Nick in amusement as his face momentarily glazed over . . . again. He sure did that a lot.  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
After a couple of hours (and what seemed to Scully an infinite number of sunflower seeds from hundreds of bags that Mulder somehow managed to carry without making his suit jacket bulge) later, they arrived in Minneapolis, Minnesota. LaCroix had sat directly behind them the whole way, making it impossible for the FBI agents to speak comfortably about this new case. Bas as soon as the plane stopped, the vampire disappeared, and they were as alone as one can be in a crowded airport.  
  
"It says here we have about an hour before the next flight," Scully noted, examining their tickets as they exited the 'on-ramp'. "That means we have a couple of extra minutes. What?"  
  
Mulder shook his head, motioning for her to be quiet, and then pulled Scully to the side. "I spoke to Langly last night," he said, glancing over his shoulder. The man did *not* know how to appear inconspicuous. Or, at least, he wasn't exercising the ability at the moment. "Apparently the man in the pictures worked for the Chicago police department in the '60s under the name of 'Nick Forester.'"  
  
"He kept the same first name," Scully said in surprise, "but changed his last one."  
  
"A lot of people do that when they change names – I imagine it's easier to remember." Scully nodded. "Anyway, they couldn't find any more information on his past – and we're lucky to get that much. This Detective Nick Knight has no past – and someone did an excellent job of covering his tracks."  
  
"That could mean anything," Scully pointed out. "He's not necessarily an X- file. And what has he done wrong? You haven't told me of any federal offenses."  
  
"Aside from hacking into computers and changing records," Mulder answered. "But that's just the thing." He glanced around once more in case anyone was listening. Nope, just the same, bored, exhausted airport faces. "He has never been in any kind of real trouble – but I checked the records – when he was in Chicago, there were several unsolved murders by exsanguination – same thing in Canada."  
  
"Coincidence," Scully argued.  
  
"Maybe – but Detective Knight also has a strange skin condition which makes him allergic to sunlight – he has always requested the night shift . . . and gotten it." Mulder tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as if making the scoring point. But Scully was not beaten yet.  
  
"I've heard of that," she said. "He's phototrophic. It's pretty rare – I've never seen a case – but not impossible."  
  
"Scully, we're talking about a guy who hasn't aged in at least forty years!" Mulder exclaimed. "I mean, this man looks like he's in his early thirties, he would have barely been alive at the time the first picture was taken." Mulder waved some papers in front of her in proof. Scully grabbed them.  
  
"Mulder, these records say he graduated from the police academy in Chicago not that long ago. There's nothing unusual about them. The picture might be wrong – or faked – or his father – or just a look-alike! I just want to stay open to all possibilities . . . including that there is no case here."  
  
"When what about that strange girl that came to us? I don't think she was joking."  
  
"I don't think she was sane," Scully answered. "Rich, maybe, but not sane – what kind of informant shoves pictures under your door, then sticks around to talk to you?"  
  
"A serious one."  
  
"Uh, huh."  
  
"Then what about LaCroix?"  
  
Scully sighed, putting one hand to her forehead. "I don't know, Mulder, I just don't know – it doesn't add up to anything but someone's sick idea of a joke."  
  
"Perhaps you should head to your plane before it leaves," LaCroix suggested. He had somehow managed to come up to the two agents without either one noticing. A moment later, he was gone again.  
  
"Doesn't he ever make any noise?" Mulder asked in amazement.  
  
"Apparently not," answered Scully. "Maybe we should investigate him anymore. X-file 666: the man who makes no noise. He does have a good point, though; we're going to be late."  
  
___________________________________________________  
  
Doctor Natalie Lambert had spent the night in the basement of The Hospital looking over her notes. She was feeling pretty well, now, though – after having a nice nap on her desk. But it was time to get back to work again. There would be a body rolled in any second now. In fact . . .  
  
"Here he is, doc," said the young man who rolled the body in.  
  
"What's left of him," added the redheaded girl who accompanied him. "Some bits of dust and ash, mainly." She laughed a little nervously and hurriedly left with the boy.  
  
"Then why did they put him in a full body bag?" Natalie asked herself. "Of course, it does look pretty full . . . this is going to be ugly." Wincing in anticipation, she unzipped the bag and jumped back in shock.  
  
"Thanks for that," said the 'young' man inside, sitting up. "It was getting a bit cramped in there. Are you all right?" he asked, looking at the shaken doctor. "I didn't mean to surprise you."  
  
"You're not going to grab a bag of blood and drink it, are you?" Nat asked cautiously.  
  
"Blood?" he replied in eager surprise. "You have blood in here? The formaldehyde must have drowned out the smell!" He looked around. Spotting a blood bag, the vampire jumped for it and downed the contents without pausing. Then he looked up at Natalie suspiciously. "What made you think I'd do that, love?"  
  
"You're a vampire," Natalie answered. "The second one I've pulled in in the last couple years. Why is it always me who gets you people?"  
  
"I don't know – luck?"  
  
"I doubt it. I'm Natalie Lambert, by the way. I haven't seen you around here before, so you must be new," Natalie continued, quickly recovering from the shock.  
  
"Spike," he answered, looking at the doctor as if she were crazy. Then – "What do you mean; you've never heard of me? I was one of the biggest vampires this century! Still am, I guess."  
  
"You're only a century old?" she asked in surprise. "No wonder. But I'm quite sure I would have remembered you; you are very unlike the other vampires I've met here in Toronto."  
  
"Toronto? Toronto Canada?" Spike interrupted. "You mean we're not still in California?"  
  
Natalie stared at him doubtfully. "No, I'm quite sure this is Toronto. Although, your accent is strange . . . but you sound more Australian than Californian."  
  
"British."  
  
"Sorry. What I mean is you're just a little confused. It's not surprising, seeing as the two who brought you in here said you were basically ash. What happened?"  
  
"Oh, you know, the usual: the end of the world, the opening of the hell mouth, an ugly pendant sucking out my soul, sunlight and Death."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I know it's strange," Spike answered, grabbing another bag of blood. "I didn't think Death was a real person either, but she is – and bloody insane! Here I was, thinking we were alone in the world, and this little *girl* shows up in black robes and tells me she's Death! And now I wake up here, alive. I mean, I'm not exactly alive, but not . . . dead."  
  
"Undead," Natalie supplied, pulling up the word from the recesses of her memory.  
  
"Yes, but I don't know why – I *should* be dead!" Spike exclaimed after draining bag #2. "I shouldn't be in Canada or wherever we are. I was in the *sunlight*!"  
  
"And now you're here," Natalie finished. She pulled up a chair very slowly, and sat on it, as if afraid it would break. "That's very strange."  
  
"You're telling me!"  
  
"No, not that," Natalie said, shaking her head.  
  
"Well *I* thought it was strange. What, does this happen every day for you? Unknown vampires just showing up after the end of the world? Or do you not know about that?" Spike looked at her again in wonder. "You don't, do you? All this stuff about vampires . . . but you've never even noticed the end of the world. So what do *you* think is so strange?"  
  
"I had a dream," Natalie started, then paused. "I *thought* I had had a dream that I had died . . . that Nick had killed me."  
  
"Nick? Who's he, your vampire friend?"  
  
Nat nodded, and then continued. "He bit me . . . but he took too much, and I died."  
  
"You died because he took too much?" Spike interrupted. "That doesn't add up. No, go ahead and finish, don't mind me."  
  
Natalie gave him a Look, but continued. "Then I woke up here, so I thought it was all a dream! Now that you're here, though . . ."  
  
"Wait a minute," Spike interjected. "You woke up *here*?"  
  
"Yes . . ."  
  
"Where exactly is here?"  
  
"The Coroner's Building, of course. No . . ." Natalie really looked around her for the first time. "This is The Hospital! How did I know that? And why would I be doing an autopsy in a hospital?"  
  
"I thought that's where they were done," Spike shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything."  
  
"Yes it does. It means a lot . . ."  
  
"It means you think you're dead. Or that you've been given a second chance or something like that." Natalie nodded again. "Well I'm not going to wait around thinking I'm dead. How do I get out of this place?" Spike stopped, looking at Natalie's face. "What, don't you think we can? Do you *feel* dead? Well I'll tell you this: I've been dead, and this isn't it." He took a few steps toward the door. "Aren't you coming?" Natalie smiled and followed him. After all, it was a doctor's duty to look after her patients . . . even if they were technically dead. 


	5. Nondying canon characters and fan fictio...

Death of TV shows Part 4: Non-dying canon characters and fan fictions of doom A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-files crossover  
  
Disclaimer: This story includes people from the Forever Knight, Buffy and X- files 'verses. I do not claim any of them, nor am I getting any kind of money for this writing. Although I *would* love to take any of them out for coffee. Well, tea, I don't like coffee. Or maybe hot chocolate. And I don't particularly want to meet Buffy. Anyway: on to the story. __________________________________________ __________________________________________  
  
Death, moving slightly nonexistent music, made a check in her tremendously ragged-looking black notebook. For a moment she hummed along, then decided to sing . . . but no, she wasn't *that* evil.  
  
Okay, yes she was: "Und ich habe viel tun! So, ich werde. . . no, wait, that song was originally in English. What are the words?" she cocked on eye at Janette. "Or do you only know the French? Wait! There was a Latin version also: "Et habeo multam ad agendam! Ergo agam . . . Oh, is it your turn?"  
  
Janette looked at her strangely. Before she could answer, though, Death said: "Janette DuCharme, beautiful, deadly, and now going into fan fiction." She looked up and winked at the woman standing before her. "Have fun." She pushed Janette through a swirling pink portal that lead to a story line, and then moved on to Captain Reese. ___________________________________________________  
  
Mulder and Scully didn't arrive in Toronto until nearly two in the afternoon that day, both feeling rather weary and bored after their lengthy plane ride. LaCroix, after his brief words in the Minneapolis airport, had disappeared, so the agents had ample opportunity to talk about the fact that they knew almost nothing about the case and so it was pretty useless to discuss it. As I said, they were bored.  
  
But almost as soon as they stepped off the airplane, things got a bit more . . . interesting.  
  
"Ah, there you are!" An overly-cheerful voice exclaimed, matching the young man who strode breathlessly over to Mulder and Scully. He wore the typical uniform of the police, but didn't seem to match it well: the smile of his face and snapping of his fingers was just too exuberant to be in place for such and occupation. But it was certainly a 'ray of sunshine' so to speak, even if the sun had yet to show its face that day. "You're right on time – they told me you would be. I'm Alex Lemone, by the way. I assume you are agents Mulder and Scully?"  
  
The two mentioned nodded, reaching for ID. "Oh, that isn't necessary," Lemone said, waving his hand dismissively. "I recognize you – I'm a big fan of your work, by the way. What they let me see, that is, which isn't much. I'll drive you to the station, if you'll come with me."  
  
Mulder raised his eyebrows pointedly at Scully who told Lemone that they usually just rented a car . . . but he wouldn't have any of it. "I was told to escort you there. Anyway, it's an honor, come on!" ___________________________________________________  
  
It was evening and Buffy allowed Nick to put her in that "horribly- unfashionable car" (with ample trunk space) and drive her to the station.  
  
Buffy was feeling more than a little uncomfortable around Nick. He was certainly nice (especially for one in his situation, but kept blanking out. She very much hoped he wouldn't have one of those episodes while he was driving) still . . . Nick was just one of those people who you can just tell know everything about you. It was unnerving. It was as if Nick (whom Buffy, being Buffy, noticed was rather attractive) understood her perfectly, and didn't particularly like certain parts of her. Oh, well, she'd be free of him soon enough.  
  
Nick, on the other hand, was extremely wary of the entire situation. He wasn't sure what was going on, but LaCroix had something to do with it, and *he had to get out of town!* Everything was horribly wrong, and he was *still* stuck with some noisy teenager who somehow knew (and depended) upon him . . . while being illegally in Canada. Though he didn't show it, Nick was close to the point of panicking, and it was all his 800 years of training that allowed him to keep a relatively calm (and flashback-less) head.  
  
Finally, after what seemed much too long to Nick, and an eternity to Buffy, they arrived at the Police Station, and Nick was able to escort Buffy to the police station . . . and was immediately put in a line to wait.  
  
"This has been a very strange week," said one of the officers, who knew Nick by reputation. "A good portion of the staff is gone, and around town more than ten people have been reported missing in the last hour. But it looks like you don't have someone missing – you've found someone."  
  
"Yes," Nick said, turning to Buffy, who was looking curiously around her. "This is Buffy Sommers. She seems to have been knocked out and brought to Toronto under specific circumstances. She claims to remember nothing about traveling here (from California) save someone called . . ."  
  
"Death," Buffy supplied, feeling more than slightly stupid for saying it. But Death had been real! She would have never imagined someone like *that!*  
  
"Okay," the officer said, looking even more tired now. "Come with me, we'll get you sorted out. You can't stay in Canada illegally – and back at your home, you must be another 'missing person.'"  
  
Buffy smiled slightly at the joke. It wasn't a very good one – but from the look of the officer, it had been a long day. And she was definitely not in a position to be anything but diplomatic.  
  
"I have to get going," Nick said, shaking the officer's hand. He turned to Buffy, "Good luck."  
  
Nick quickly left to go to his own office. He very much wanted to leave – he had to leave! He had to get away! – but he also had to find Natalie, and what was going on around here. That came first . . . didn't it? In any case, his legs betrayed him, carrying him straight through the halls to his own desk. ___________________________________________________  
  
*There is no way out,* Natalie thought, staring at the blank wall that had previously serviced as the main entrance. *I am stuck in this hospital alone with a hungry vampire and there is /no/ way out!* Being rather cool- headed, Nat hadn't begun to panic, but she was definitely thinking it might be a good idea.  
  
"What's this," Spike asked, walking forward to retrieve a letter. "To Natalie and William, do not open until you want to open it."  
  
"'Do not open until you want to open it'?" Nat echoed. "I would have thought that'd be obvious. Why would you open something if you didn't want to? And who's 'William'?"  
  
"Me," Spike replied, turning over the letter in his hand. "I think I know who wrote this—the only one who might write something like that." He ran his finger around the words, noting the subtle difference in the shade of black from that of her notebook. "Death. Remember what I told you before? Well, I'm guessing she left this." He ripped the envelope open to reveal a black sheet of paper, neatly folded in thirds. Spike looked at it silently, and then handed it to Natalie who read it aloud.  
  
"Dear Natalie Lambert and William "Spike" No-last-name-unless-I-missed-an- episode,  
There are videos in the second cabinet to your left, third drawer down. I got them from the Real World. Enjoy.  
-- Death"  
  
"Not very talkative, is she?" Spike asked, already heading to the cabinet. He opened it to reveal row upon row of video tapes, stacked two feet high. "Well, this should be interesting."  
  
Natalie picked up a few tapes, and read their side labels out loud for Spike's benefit. "The X-files? Forever Knight? Buffy the Vampire Slayer? What are those supposed to mean?" She stared down at the words again, and murmured, as if to herself, "Forever Knight? Nick? Why would there be a tape of him?"  
  
"I was wondering the same thing," Spike said, holding up a 'Buffy' tape. "See, I have known Buffy, have for years, and I don't remember anyone ever recording her – certainly not for all these tapes worth!"  
  
"I don't like this," answered Natalie. "But at the same time, I think it's best if we look at these. They could have anything on them! And if someone really has been spying on us for years, I want to know what's there. Spike nodded.  
  
"Right. Where's the television?" 


	6. Of meetings, watchings, and crazy people

Death of TV shows Part 5: Of meetings, watching, and crazy people. A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-files crossover  
  
Disclaimer: Forever Knight, Buffy and X-files belong on TV And this Disclaimer is really cheesy. [I don't own them, for this I'm glad For then the series' would be really bad.]  
  
If my parts take too long to get out, just remember: "Work expands to fill the time available for its completion." – Northcote Parkinson.   
  
After Lucien LaCroix had abandoned the two X-files agents to their fate (Alex Lemone) he went to find Death. Or, rather, he called her and she came, however grudgingly. "What do you want?" she asked a little rudely, pulling out a black notebook that LaCroix glared openly at. "Very demanding," she muttered, making a little note in the book.  
  
"Put it away," LaCroix ordered, quite aware that this probably just make her write another little memo on the black page. "We have business to discuss."  
  
"Very direct," Death muttered, but the notebook did find its way back into her raven robes. "Okay, now what is it you want already? I have been fulfilling my part of the agreement."  
  
"By doing absolutely nothing," LaCroix pointed out in a way more sarcastic than his usual, though but just as dry.  
  
"Naturally," Death replied, quite unfazed by the vampire. "I wouldn't make a deal that would actually put me at a disadvantage, or cause any unnecessary paperwork. I do hope you have had a nice little break between times of seeing me. I wouldn't want to make you insane."  
  
LaCroix didn't pause a moment at this blatant and seemingly random changing of subject. "Who are these FBI agents you have sent for? I have heard them speaking of Nicholas, and it would be very unfortunate if they were to learn what we are. I imagine the Enforcers would not like it very much."  
  
"They wouldn't? I guess not. They're a rather cruel bunch of leeches." Death caught the look on LaCroix's face. He probably guessed – correctly – that Death calling other vampires 'leeches' implied he did as well. "What? Leeches are blood-suckers! Would you prefer I had called them ticks? Those nasty little arachnids that you can pull of, but their heads stay, bitten into your skin? Leeches on the other hand – they're perfectly respectable slugs!"  
  
"Where are the Enforcers?" LaCroix asked sharply, serious considering attempting to take Death's head off. But . . . it would be so much more interesting to see how much control he could gain over the game they were playing first.  
  
Death considered this for a moment, before answering: "They're not in this fic yet."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Mmmmmm? Oh, I don't want them to appear yet, so they won't." And that's all there was to it. Stupid author. "Is there anything else you would like?"  
  
LaCroix now really did pause. Would his next 'question' make him seem any less potent? No, probably not. "Show me how to get to the hospital."  
  
"Fun! Off into the wild blue – er, white – hospital we go!"  
  
Alex Lemone was one of those people who like to talk for the sake of hearing their own voice. He would say, of course, that he was very impressed with what he had heard of the agent's work, and were they familiar there was a big shortage of people around (which Mulder assumed to mean something had something to do with missing persons, although, quite frankly, he was too busy reviewing UFO sightings in the area to really pay much attention. . . .)  
  
"And here we are: the grand police station of Toronto! Please mind your steps, as we may actually encounter stairs – and, possibly, if I know me, stares! Now if you'll come this way, we'll enter the homicide department where the famous Nicholas Knight resides. Yes, right over here . . ."  
  
"No wonder they sent him away to get us," Mulder murmured in Scully's ear. She quite agreed, but gave him a Look anyway.  
  
"Okay, be nice, people here are very touchy," Lemone whispered as they approached, suddenly stopping. "Rumor has it the captain and Natalie Lambert have disappeared, and Knight is quitting. It's really tense in there. Your own your own. Bye!" He almost ran away from the door he had been so excited about a moment earlier.  
  
It must be really bad in there.  
  
Feeling more than a little uncomfortable (they didn't really have much jurisdiction here, even with the Canadian government's permission) Scully lead the way into the building, closely followed by her partner.  
  
It wasn't, she supposed, that the work there was particularly bad – but there was a feeling of lethargy that covered the building, along with depressing. It was a mood that might fit a funeral, not a homicide department. No officers where making jokes, and few were eating donuts (which Mulder looked rather longingly at, before snapping back into professional mode.)  
  
"What's going on in here?" Scully whispered to her partner. "Why is everyone so depressed?"  
  
Mulder shrugged, and led the way back into the captain's office (he could tell by the label on the door, and a sort of universal design which one it was). There, as Mulder pushed the door open, he saw a young man who looked quite out-of-place behind the desk, looking, while less gloomy than the others, certainly not joyful to what was obviously a recent promotion (anything else, and he might have actually changed the design from the last captain's family pictures.)  
  
"Yes?" the captain asked, looking up slowly from something he had been staring at. "May I help you?"  
  
"We're agents Mulder and Scully," Mulder said, holding up his identification as Scully did the same. "We're here with the permission of the Canadian government to run an investigation of joint interest. Is Detective Nicholas Knight here?"  
  
"He just arrived," the captain (or, perhaps, substitute captain) said, pointing to the door where a very haggard-looking man who looked perhaps in his thirties had entered.  
  
"Thank you," Scully said, then paused. "Is something going on here that we should know about?"  
  
The captain sighed heavily. "I don't know what's going on. That's part of the problem. Everyone is suddenly missing. The way things are going, I'm surprised to see Knight at all. Everyone seems to be missing! We've had countless people coming in to report them. I'm just glad I work in Homicide instead of Missing Persons. But no, aside from that, nothing is going on."  
  
Mulder and Scully exchanged a look that said 'ah' and they moved away after Scully politely bid the captain a thanking goodbye. Then, together, they moved in towards Nick.  
  
Buffy sat in a sort of waiting room, fiddling. Not fiddling with anything specific, just in general. She was . . . she somehow felt this was all wrong. After all, wasn't she Buffy, The Original Slayer? Girl of action (albeit, often this action was not morally sound, quite the reverse, and she was too Sue-like by half) she should be doing something!  
  
But, somehow, a part of her felt it was better to wait. To tell the truth she was very uncomfortable – she had never been in a police station for more than a moment or two, save for that mess with her mother's boyfriend being a robot . . . but that wasn't like this. She at least had a home, then.  
  
Buffy sighed and got up, walking to the phone. But who could she possibly call? Her entire town was not nothing more than a really, really, big crater. And it wasn't exactly like she could just snap her fingers and summon that weird Death person. Hmm. Maybe a long-distance to England? If only she knew the numbers!  
  
"Death," Buffy raged. "Why did she ever have to show up? I was just fine until the insane –"  
  
"I hope you weren't going to swear, because that would be bad." Buffy turned to face Death. . . .  
  
As soon as Nick saw the FBI agents heading towards him, he did something LaCroix would have approved of: groaned (well, not that part), turned, and walked away. As soon as he had left the precinct, Nick sped up his pace, made sure they hadn't caught up yet, and launched into the air, landing on the roof above them. While it was true he didn't know who they were, exactly, the trench coats, stern expressions, and how they headed straight at him reminded him too much of agents. But instead of flying away, he waited as they went outside, and listened.  
  
"—He was here, Scully, you saw him."  
  
"I know I did, but where is he now? Mulder –"  
  
"Come on, Scully," said the man, who was obviously called 'Mulder.' "I think he went this way."  
  
Nick sighed in relief, and took off from his position of the roof. Now was not the time for confrontation, and all his instincts were yelling at him to run. Oh, well. At least he wasn't hungry.  
  
Unsure of exactly what he was feeling, Nick went home to pack the few belongings he would take with him when he left. Because he was going to leave very, very soon. 


End file.
